“They will turn everything upside down.” “But what do they want?” “They want to see you.” “What are they called?” “You know one, M. Gaston R.” “Ah, yes, I know him. And the other?” “M. Armand Duval; and you don’t know him.” “No, but bring them along. Anything is better than the count. I expect you. Come at once.” Marguerite closed her window and Prudence hers. Marguerite, who had remembered my face for a moment, did not remember my name. I would rather have been remembered to my disadvantage than thus forgotten. “I knew,” said Gaston, “that she would be delighted to see us.” “Delighted isn’t the word,” replied Prudence, as she put on her hat and shawl. “She will see you in order to get rid of the count. Try to be more agreeable than he is, or (I know Marguerite) she will put it all down to me.” We followed Prudence downstairs. I trembled; it seemed to me that this visit was to have a great influence on my life. I was still more agitated than on the evening when I was introduced in the box at the Opera Comique. As we reached the door that you know, my heart beat so violently that I was hardly able to think. We heard the sound of a piano. Prudence rang. The piano was silent. A woman who looked more like a companion than a servant opened the door. We went into the drawing-room, and from that to the boudoir, which was then just as you have seen it since. A young man was leaning against the mantel-piece. Marguerite, seated at the piano, let her fingers wander over the notes, beginning scraps of music without finishing them. The whole scene breathed boredom, the man embarrassed by the consciousness of his nullity, the woman tired of her dismal visitor. At the voice of Prudence, Marguerite rose, and coming toward us with a look of gratitude to Mme. Duvernoy, said: “Come in, and welcome.” Chapter IX “Good-evening, my dear Gaston,” said Marguerite to my companion. “I am very glad to see you. Why didn’t you come to see me in my box at the Variétés?” “I was afraid it would be indiscreet.” “Friends,” and Marguerite lingered over the word, as if to intimate to those who were present that in spite of the familiar way in which she greeted him, Gaston was not and never had been anything more than a friend, “friends are always welcome.” “Then, will you permit me to introduce M. Armand Duval?” “I had already authorized Prudence to do so.” “As far as that goes, madame,” I said, bowing, and succeeding in getting more or less intelligible sounds out of my throat, “I have already had the honour of being introduced to you.” Marguerite’s beautiful eyes seemed to be looking back in memory, but she could not, or seemed not to, remember. “Madame,” I continued, “I am grateful to you for having forgotten the occasion of my first introduction, for I was very absurd and must have seemed to you very tiresome. It was at the Opera Comique, two years ago; I was with Ernest de ——.”